All I Can Do Is Try
by chikinita09
Summary: The 'right one' would not make me cry, I know, but crying means you have feelings for them. Right? Astoria hates tears and sappiness, but this Valentine's Day was bound to change her life. V-DAY 2011 2-parts One-Shot Astoria/Hermione era: Young Adult
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey, guys. I wrote a Hermione/Astoria 2-parts one-shot for Valentine's Day. I might have portrayed Astoria as a little "promiscuous" and cold-hearted than in my other stories, but I balanced it off by making her more sound sophisticated. c",)**

**She's 19 years old, just like in the books 3 years younger than Hermione. I hate the movies for choosing a brunette and brown-eyed actress, so I'll stick with blonde hair and green eyes. **

**WARNING: Femslash/femmeslash! Astoria/Hermione! Rated T (****suggestive adult themes**** but ****no graphic scenes of a sexual nature****) It's a love story. **

**DISCLAIMER: J. K. Rowling owns these characters.**

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"**All I Can Do Is Try"**

**By**

**chikinita09**

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"Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place."

**Zora Neale Hurston**

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I'm trying to recall how it happened. And why I became the person that I am today…

What happened between us wasn't an accident. I didn't force her or induce her to anything she didn't want. It was completely consensual. One moment we were chatting about work-related stuff, family, ex-lovers and boyfriends, and the next, we were pulling each other's dresses off and all of a sudden, we were in her bedroom.

And the next morning—she was gone.

Thinking that I did something wrong when I tried my very best to make it right, to please her, it's a bit of a hard blow to take.

Imagine that she had walked out of her own flat—well, _our_ flat. We've been living together since I've moved in with her a couple months after my graduation from Hogwarts, when I've realised that I could no longer afford the rent of my first flat. And finding a somewhat decent and affordable place in the heart of London, which is just a stone's throw away from my workplace, was difficult these days.

Anyway, to explain the whole situation, and to avoid any confusion—I, Astoria Greengrass, am not like _that_. And she, Hermione Granger, is not like _that_, either. We don't sleep with other women and certainly not with each other. That one night—on Valentine's Day—was the only exception and maybe a mistake, but I can't make it un-happen, now can I? Also, it was my 19th birthday. So, both of us being singles that time and having no social life due to our fulltime jobs, we both decided to celebrate these two occasions together. In the end it turned out to be a bad idea…in _her_ opinion, perhaps.

Picture this: Being the idiot that I am, I took her suggestion of celebrating Valentine's Day together seriously. And with 'seriously' I mean, I took her out on a date, and bought her red roses and chocolate and a bottle of expensive wine. I don't even like Valentine's Day, but I deemed it necessary for a 'date'. This is what I usually got from my suitors or boyfriends back at school—loads of mawkish valentines plus/minus the wine. Nothing really big. When I gave them to her she started to cry. And I stood there, looking like a dumb cow, uncertain what I did wrong. Turned out she'd never received valentines from anyone before. And especially not from her baboon for an ex-boyfriend, Ronald Splatterface Weasley.

This is why dating another woman just wouldn't work out for me. They're very emotional, vulnerable, and too weepy. _I_ am a woman and I hardly cry. Maybe I have no soul? Or I just haven't found the right person yet who can make me cry. Someone for whom I would shed my precious tears, whether out of delight or out of pain. Although the 'right one' would not make me cry, I know, but crying means you have feelings for them. Right?

Anyhow, before I get to that point where I might have screwed up and scared her off, I will start from the very beginning. I've got a good reason why I did this for her, Hermione Granger, my only female friend/flatmate. Why I decided to wear my sexiest dress and apply makeup to impress her, and why I bought the flowers and confectionary to surprise her.

No, I was not in love with her—at least that time, I didn't know this consciously—or was infatuated, or just wanted to get into her pants. Nor was I drunk. Or had gone insane.

If I'd ever thought about sleeping with another girl out of curiosity, I would've explored my sexuality way back at Hogwarts when I was still a foolish and hormonal teenager—because it's easier to make excuses and to forgive yourself when you're young. If I seemed to have missed my chance back then and I still wanted to explore, I'd get drunk and find a woman who'd fall for my charm, but make sure that I'd never have to see her again to avoid the awkwardness (or worse—'The Talk') that would certainly follow.

So, no drama. No regrets. No bad feelings. No tears—not on my part, at least. It sounds mean because it makes the woman feel _used_. But we all have our flaws. And that's mine; I'm selfish.

With Hermione, however, it was completely different.

I cared about her.

It was important to me that she was happy...

Sharing a flat together for almost over a year, I have grown to like her and we eventually became friends. It was hard in the beginning having to live together with bookish Granger in a 3-bedroom flat, sharing just one bathroom added more to my frustration, and complying with her rules, e.g. no sex with men in my bedroom, was just annoying. What a prig!

Anyway, we have nothing in common, hobbies or interests alike. We don't eat fast food in front of that Muggle box she calls the _telly_ or something, or go shopping together; hence, I found it hard to warm up to her. She isn't that kind of person…like me, extroverted, a party-goer. Her definition of a relaxing evening is taking a walk in the park, or staying at home and reading a book, having a bubble bath, or doing her reports, sipping a glass of wine, and then going to bed before 9 o'clock.

That's how her life was before she met me—monotonous, colourless.

Being the complete opposite, I didn't make it easy on her, either. I was just fresh out of school. For the first time I stood on my own feet when I've moved out of my parents' home and into my first, own flat, got my first job, and earned my own money—to me, this meant freedom! No curfews. No grounding. No more asking for pocket money. And being the spoiled brat that I used to be who was served with three mealtimes a day and slept in a queen-sized bed at home, in the first few months of my freedom, I didn't worry about whether I had enough money to make ends meet. I squandered my first salary on makeovers, shopping, went to parties and got wasted all night. I was seventeen years old, what did you expect?

One morning when I woke up—again—in some guy's bed, my head throbbing painfully, not knowing where I was and how I got there, I realised that it couldn't go on like that. I was always short of money and had overdue bills to pay. Asking my parents or sister to help me pay my rent wasn't the solution, though I was certain that they would—I just couldn't bring myself to it. I'd rather beg for a bronze knut or crumps of bread on the sidewalk than ask my parents for financial support. It was my own fault, anyway.

To my parents, I was the other good daughter they were proud of, sensible, who didn't drink. Who worked as a resident at St. Mungo's Hospital, finally showing a sense of responsibility in her life.

They didn't know that I was always broke and once in a while engaged in meaningless one-night stands with men. (And yes, I did practice safe sex, thank you very much.)

Perhaps, and I mean, just _maybe_, I was a little unhappy.

I knew this had to change. At least I had to try.

I had come across her notice looking for a flatmate when I had checked the blackboard once. Funnily enough, I hadn't been planning to move into a cheaper flat or find a flatmate. And, call me stupid, but this simple solution didn't cross my mind. As I mentioned earlier, I had no money, I had to do something, so I planned on selling some of my stuff and put it on the blackboard during lunchtime. That's when I saw her notice. What a bit of serendipity!

I think it was fate.

Nah, just kidding…

If I knew it was her I wouldn't have bothered in the first place.

I barely knew her back at school, and I doubt that she even knew that I existed then. She had subjects with my sister and Pansy and Draco, but that's about it. They didn't like her, and being under my big sister's influence, I believe I didn't like her either. And goodness, she was some kind of celebrity in the Wizarding World now for being responsible for the defeat of the Dark Lord, and the re-establishment of the Ministry of Magic, together with Potty and Wheezy.

That she chose to live in a small flat, located in Muggle London, looking for a flatmate to split the rent; admittedly, this had kind of intrigued me.

The place was just two blocks down from St. Mungo's. Below the address it said _'Ask for Miss Jean'_, so after work I decided to check it out. I disregarded any thoughts of visiting the pubs or bars nearby on weekends if I lived there, but simply told myself that I wouldn't have to Apparate to work anymore. Because Appiration sickens me—literally—whether I had hangovers in the mornings or not.

Once I got there, Granger had greeted me at the door with a half-hearted smile that immediately changed to surprise, looking as if I had confused the place or something. The reason for her confusion was partly because she thought I was my older sister, Daphne, and the two always hated each other. And the other reason, she didn't expect that someone like me—remember, spoiled and rich pureblood prissy?—would be interested in a place like that, in _Muggle_ London.

Anyway, that's how we met again.

Of course, to convince her that I really do want to live there, that I'm a responsible adult, have a stable job with a fixed income, etcetera, omitting my wild and colourful past was in order. She's bloody Hermione Granger, for Merlin's sake. Holier-than-thou. Smugly virtuous. And she was my sister and ex-boyfriend's, Draco's, bullied victim and school enemy. This was my chance to turn over a new leaf, prove that I'm nice and not like _them_, even if I had to lie to her "a little".

The place itself was neat, quite modern, and spacious enough for two people, and well, very Mugglish. And with Mugglish I mean, there were lots of Muggle appliances I didn't bother with and only learned to use over time: the apparatus with the flickering pictures inside, er…_tally-…_or_…tellyvision? _the other one that phonetically sounded the same, _tally-_…or _tellyvone?_ on the coffee table, or that particular device where music emanates from, not to mention the furnace in the kitchen, and the, er…_myko-wave_? and all that other useless stuff. Whoever invented those names, anyway?

They consumed energy and there were electric bills to pay which I didn't have to at my former flat. I didn't move in there to pay additional expenses and I told her that. Wow. Having almost hit rock bottom and being so desperate, I was quite demanding, wasn't I?

Anyway, the book-lined walls were painted in egg-shell white and cherry-red at the edges, with matching curtains and black and white furniture. There were unmoving paintings of artists I've never heard of, along the wall, left and right of a small fireplace.

All in all, I fell in love with the place almost instantly. And I'm certainly not planning to move out any time soon even if _she_ does. Though I'd rather her not to…

So, with my fresh resolve of becoming the responsible adult that I had said I was, which meant refraining from partying on weekends and coming home intoxicated, the first few months were awfully boring. On the bright side, I was able to finally save up some money.

She wakes up in an ungodly hour every morning, gets things ready for work, has breakfast in peace and prefers to ride the bus to work. I wake up when she's having breakfast, take a quick spell-shower, grab a toast and rush outside. And I'm always late. That much for turning over a new leaf...

I think that's when she had decided to wake me up in the morning because relying on my wand alarm clock just didn't work out for me anymore. I just slept through it. Waking up earlier than usual gave me the time I needed to do my hair and makeup properly. But it also meant to have breakfast with her. We'd spent the first few weeks just munching on our toasts, and sitting there in awkward silence—she, reading in the _Daily Prophet_, and me, pretending to study my charts.

If someone had told me back then that only a year later, on Valentine's Day, I'd be munching _her_, ha!—I'd have recommended a good mental institution.

We always took our dinner together, engaged in world-shattering conversations like politics and what the world had become and all those intellectual, mind-stimulating subjects I've never imagined I could hold with another adult. As I'd guessed, she'd chosen to live in this place to avoid the publicity. Here, in Muggle London, she was just a young woman in her early twenties, nameless, and not the one who brought peace to the Wizarding World.

What I've learned later from Mrs. Malfoy and my mother—I know eavesdropping at my age is inexcusable, but I couldn't help it, and whether the rumour was true, I have no pooping idea—is that Hermione had been donating a huge amount of her monthly income to the welfare of patients, especially post-Wizarding War victims, whose brains had been permanently affected by magic, at St. Mungo's Hospital. Er…sounds great. But, oh, look at the time. All I'm saying is that she's a freaking Good Samaritan! A Saint. She barely had enough for herself, had already contributed so much to the world, yet she would share what she could give. That's why she'd decided to get a flatmate.

I'd rather have my right arm chopped off than her ever finding out that I've squandered my money on booze and pretty clothes.

Even though I avoided getting home drunk from a party, she figured out quickly where I've been. Must be the reek of cigarette smoke on my clothes and hair, or that I was usually more talkative than on other days.

Anyway, one time I came home early from work and I found her sitting by the fireplace—_crying_. She wiped her eyes quickly and spun around, almost startled, as if I had just caught her doing something embarrassing. I remember that she had thrown a letter in the fire, gotten up and disappeared in the kitchen to prepare our dinner. I can't stand seeing other people cry, but I couldn't go and just ignore it. So I followed my instinct and took her in my arms, without forcing her to share whatever was troubling her heart. Later on she eventually divulged that her relationship with Weasley was over.

And with that, our girls' night outs started. Every fortnight, and nothing was, well, so _dull_ anymore, to say the least. For the record, I didn't have to convince her long, she wanted this too. And maybe she thought that it would be a good idea to do more things together. We'd finally warmed up to each other, especially after a few drinks when she'd loosen up and become less the uptight and bossy Granger I know at home.

She'd collapsed more than once in my bed, snuggled up against my body, her smooth legs entwined with mine. And I felt her warm breath against my neck, the softness of her breasts against my own. I thought I'd go crazy; it took a lot of self-control not to succumb to my overwhelming desire. But I remember that at some point lying like that together, and as inebriated as we both were, we had started making out.

Yes. As in, _we kissed_.

This kind of kiss was different from what I was used to. She didn't 'rape' my mouth with her tongue or spread my legs to tear me up inside. I wasn't used to tenderness and soft flesh and sweet scent or just…snuggle. But I liked it better.

Feeling guilty the first few times, I used to _Levitate_ her back to her bedroom once she'd passed out, because I didn't want her to find herself in my bed the next morning, half-naked, assuming we'd had sex. That would be awkward. Also, I'm not certain if she just pretended that she had never seen the kiss marks that were so visible on her chest and belly, or ever noticed the colour of my lipstick at the collars of her blouses, but I didn't really care. I just played along. So, things between us remained the same.

We went out. Got drunk. Snogged each other senseless. Then passed out.

Every fortnight.

But, let's face it, it couldn't go on like this—I needed my release, I have my needs, too. If not with her, than with some man, or another woman—I wanted sex.

But something's changed me.

As I'd watched her sleeping form, so peaceful, my desire for sex immediately dissipated in the back of my mind. I realised that I did not want to use just somebody to quench my unresolved sexual tension from kissing her, and in a form of a meaningless one-night stand.

I considered the option of dating again, but due to my job and the exhaustion I felt when I came home in the evening, I didn't have the motivation to find the 'right one' _out there_, then get to know each other, and then start a serious relationship. I certainly wouldn't have any difficulties what with my good looks, sexy body, bright green eyes and long blonde hair, but still…you know?

Hence, I thought about it once, what it would be like to be together…with _her_. As my girlfriend.

I wanted somebody I already lived together with. I came home to. I can have intellectual conversations with.

Someone who inspired me to be a better person.

Someone who was smart, who wasn't only beautiful outside but on the inside.

Someone like Hermione…

I even wondered if I could fall in love with her, if I could make her happy. I would bestow her with lovely gifts on special occasions.

Like, Valentine's Day.

So, two weeks before the said occasion, we'd gone out and as usual, we ended up in my bedroom and snogged. I think she'd lasted longer this time—from kissing me, mind you. I had also stopped bothering with _Levitating_ her back to her bedroom, and she'd never asked me what she was doing there in my bed, wearing just her bra and knickers and having kiss marks in inappropriate places I didn't doubt she never noticed. However, I couldn't help but thinking throughout the whole thing that she was perfectly aware of what we had been doing when drunk, and that she was enjoying it. Just as much as I did. And I would bet all the Galleons on my Gringotts bank account that she wanted more than just kissing me.

Maybe I misinterpreted the signs… Maybe that's when I got it all wrong.

I won't lie. Part of me wished that she would ask me about the kiss marks, and that we'd have 'The Talk' I so dreaded with my former sexual partners. I wanted her to talk with me about 'us', and boundaries or expectations she might have but I'd be willing to meet. But it never came.

Thinking back, I could've initiated it myself and ask her to be with me, but a bigger part of me was a coward. Not only was I afraid of commitment, but of rejection, too.

Anyway, one evening, while I sat in the living room with her, going through my charts, out of the blue she asked me if I had any plans on Valentine's Day. I shook my head no.

"What, you have no date?" she asked, genuinely surprised. "Isn't that your birthday, too?" She took a sip of her wine and zapped through the TV channels, waiting for my answer.

"Yeah, it is," I said, watching the pictures in the telly change. "Had nothing planned. Why? You want to ask me out?" I said facetiously. She only giggled, not looking at me.

"You can invite your friends over, and we'll have a party here. Or _you_ can have your party here with them, and I'll just stay the weekend over at Ginny and Harry's," she offered, smiling.

"And how mean would that be of me if I were to throw a birthday party and not invite you?"

"Well, I don't think you'd want a killjoy like me on a party with people your age."

I smirked. An image of her, all drunk, and she dancing with me in bars, crossed my mind. "I wouldn't say you're a killjoy, Hermione. And, come on, people _my_ age? You sound like my granny."

She laughed. "All right, what do you think about if we celebrate it together? Your birthday and Valentine's Day."

"Oh, sounds good. You mean, only the two of us?"

"Yes."

"And it will be just like on our girls' night out, eh?" I said merrily.

"Yes, if it's okay with you."

"Can we eat out this time?" I asked. She choked on her wine and turned red from coughing. I didn't realise that this question could be understood in two ways, causing us to blush. After a moment I amended, "We could dine in the French restaurant down the street. Do you want to go there?"

"Sure, why not?" she said once she found her voice back, winking at me, "It wouldn't hurt to try out something new."

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**A/N: This story was too long to leave it like that. So, Part 2 will be posted on or after Valentine's Day. Feel free to check out my other stories featuring this pairing, "Fire In The Belly", or "What A Wicked A Game You Play". **

**Please review! Spread the love and support AsMione/HermOria c",)**


	2. Chapter 2

That afternoon on Valentine's Day—and my 19th birthday—I got off from work early and bought a new dress. I thought I might as well look presentable since we'd planned going out to a fine restaurant, and I didn't want to stultify myself by wearing one of my clubbing dresses while in the company of the Wizarding 'heroine', Hermione Granger. Then I bought flowers, chocolate, and Hermione's favourite wine. I only meant it as a kind of joke to see her surprised expression and how she'd react if another woman showered her with romantic affection.

Though on the inside, I was fucking nervous.

I didn't know why. When I came home, I felt like a teenager on her first date. And even on my very first date back then, I wasn't this nervous. Once I sneaked in the valentines into my bedroom and hid them in my drawer, I went to the living room and found her sitting in her favourite couch, reading _The_ _Daily Prophet_.

She nodded towards the coffee table and told me that I got Owls from my parents and sister; figured they might be birthday greeting cards. While the pink and red envelopes amongst the letters wouldn't take a genius to figure out what they were and from whom they came: those moronic seventeen-year-old interns from work, who thought that I liked Valentine's Day, not grasping that I was only being ironic when I said it. I didn't care. I slumped on the sofa and turned on the telly.

"You do have quite a lot of suitors, don't you?" said Hermione behind the papers, sounding a little cross. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking because I wanted her to be jealous, when in fact she was just being herself—abrasive. "But, by all means, you didn't have to sneak in their gifts for you, you know? I don't really mind."

"What? N-No, that's not it."

"Oh come on," she said, snorting. "You don't have to deny that you're seeing someone and that you'd rather want to go out with them rather than with me, and that you're only being polite and nice for not cancelling our plans because I've asked you out first."

"What? I'm not seeing anybody! Now where's _that_ attitude coming from?" I retorted, but amended quickly, "What time are we going out, anyway? I'm almost starved," I said before this argument turned into a fight. We hardly ever fought, but if we did, it was about using the bathroom in the morning. "Wait, do _you_ want to cancel because _you're_ seeing someone? I'm fine with it. Guess, I'll just have dinner all by myself then," I muttered, looking at my fingernails.

"God! When would I be able to meet someone new in my tight schedule?" she said snippily, "Ask out one of the house-elves in my department perhaps? Or maybe the Minister of Magic himself?"

"I'd go for the house-elves. At least they are more charming," I replied, making her laugh.

After a brief silence, she asked, "So, what is it like to be nineteen? Feeling any changes?"

Changes…?

I bit my bottom lip. Merlin, yes! I do feel the changes when I look at you, I wanted to say, my sappiness level starting to get out of hand. I tore my eyes off of her luscious lips and looked at the telly, seeing the weatherman providing us with the forecast.

"Not really," I lied.

Then, in the evening, she made it so hard for me, I thought I'd explode. I was applying my makeup and doing my hair, while she was taking a shower, and, from the mirror reflection, I had a perfect view of her naked body—well, just the back of her. Enough to distract me and mess up my makeup that I had to re-do it. As if she wasn't already mentally torturing me enough, she stepped outside the shower, causing me to drop my gaze to the floor. I didn't have to apply any blush-on the entire evening.

She gave me my birthday present: new leather gloves for the still cold weather and a white fluffy scarf. So I went to my bedroom, changed into my new dress, got the valentines and handed them over to her.

"Happy Valentine's Day," I said, beaming.

I expected surprise. Maybe confusion. Shock? Madness? Or irritation? Or just a burst of shallow laughter.

Maybe I expected all reactions at once. What I didn't expect is that she'd cry.

"P-Please, don't cry," I said, patting her head, feeling awful, "they're not recycled tokens or anything. The flowers are from the store nearby, and I bought the chocolates there too. I got the wine the day when I went to the mall. A-Are you mad at me?"

"Goodness, why would I be mad at you, I just…" she said through her tears, laughing softly, "…thank you so much. I didn't expect this." She laughed again, squeezing my hand. "You look gorgeous in that dress," she said, opening the box of chocolate and taking one. "I'm going to blend out beside you, as usual."

Then we had dinner at the restaurant, had a perfect evening together, drank some wine, but didn't get really drunk. Unlike the many times before. It was an ordinary evening between two friends, celebrating my birthday and Valentine's Day together, chatting about work, reminiscing about ex-lovers and boyfriends, mutual friends, etcetera.

And since we didn't get drunk, I didn't expect that we'd have a make-out session together later on. We got home, she looked around the living room, took a deep breath and turned around to me, smiled, and then kissed my cheek, thanking me for the wonderful evening. Again and again. And I mean, with every thankyou she kissed me, along my jaw, my chin, until our lips met. She just smelled so delicious, her perfume, I couldn't resist. That's when I couldn't hold myself back any longer and kissed her the way I used to on all those wonderful weekends we had spent together.

And she kissed me back.

Well, and one thing led to the other.

I'm not exaggerating when I say that it was the best sex I've ever had. For once, I wasn't drunk. It was simply mind-blowing. Maybe because I thought she'd changed me. Maybe because I thought she was the right one for me.

But the next day, I found my bed cold and _she_ wasn't there.

I haven't seen her in two days now, nor did I receive an Owl about her whereabouts. She didn't show up at work the following Monday, either. Turned out she was on leave. So I Floo'ed her friends from the Floo Network at St. Mungo's, called up her parents using that _televone_-thingy, but all efforts were futile.

How can she fucking do this to me?

While I'm sitting at the kitchen table, eating a yogurt, I hear the front door opening, and _she_ walks in.

"I'm sorry," she says in a low voice. "Ginny Owl'ed me, and…" she trails off, "I didn't mean to worry you."

"I'm sorry, too," I reply, my voice breaking, "I accidentally spilled wine on your carpet because I couldn't get off the stupid cork. There, we're even now."

Laughing softly, she takes the seat beside me. Suddenly she looked solemn. "I went to Ron's and stayed there," she explains. I feel my internal organs churn and twist painfully. Right, why didn't I think of Floo'ing her at her ex-boyfriend's? "I didn't mean that to happen, between us. And sorry if I freaked out and just left. I thought what I did was wrong. If we can just forget, and—"

Wait. _She_ is apologising to _me_? She thought _she_ did something wrong?

Did I miss something?

I shake my head at her, and I blurt out angrily,

"I love you, Hermione!"

She just looks as shocked and surprised as I feel.

These words, I've never said them to anyone before. And yet… I don't regret. I don't want to be just her fucking first girl-on-girl sex experience; she might as well just _Obliviate_ me and never talk to me again. The last thing I want is her telling me that she's made up with her ex-boyfriend and wanted to go back to him. I know that I don't want to lose her. My eyes go blurry and my cheeks are soaked with tears—but fuck it.

I'm pissed.

"I love you, okay?" I cry again, "Look, _I'm _the idiot because I was the one who was in love with you and I took advantage of the situation, I am sorry if…if I was awful in bed," I ramble on, I hate apologising and I didn't know what else to say. I hate it even more than crying, "and I'm sorry if I…if I ate your last yogurt—"

She cuts my words off with a kiss. Classic.

"Really?" she asks, smiling against my lips. I nod fiercely and pull her closer to me, kissing her back.

And so, some time later, in my bed, after passing out from a different kind of exhaustion, drenched in sweat, and with Hermione in my arms, she tells me that she loves me, too.

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**A/N: That was sappy! From selfish-party-girl-hard-as-a-rock to a romantic girlfriend. Please leave a review/comment if you liked it c",) Check out my other Hermione/Astoria story, "Fire in the Belly", written in Hermione's POV.**


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